


baby, i'd cross constellations (to get back to your side)

by dreamweavernyx



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamweavernyx/pseuds/dreamweavernyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pavel Chekov dies in a way that Starfleet officers only dream of: in a great blaze on the ruins of a battlefield, giving his life for his comrades and drifting away surrounded by his beloved crew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby, i'd cross constellations (to get back to your side)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isolus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isolus/gifts).



> Concept of the afterlife inspired by Philip Pullman's _His Dark Materials_.
> 
> This fic has a [theme song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsFb661EXsI).

Pavel Chekov dies in a way that Starfleet officers only dream of: in a great blaze on the ruins of a battlefield, giving his life for his comrades and drifting away surrounded by his beloved crew.

 

At age fifty, Chekov considered his death not entirely unwelcome – after nearly twenty years of feeling alone in a ship full of people, the next great adventure came as a relief.

 

It was _supposed_ to be an uninhabited planet on the fringe of the Federation’s interspace territory, but halfway through their patrol they’d been ambushed by a horde of Klingon soldiers. They’d had younger officers with them, definitely, but Chekov found himself hanging back near Kirk, out of long-borne habit, one hand yanking out his phaser.

 

It had been his mini-bomb prototype that had ultimately saved the day. He’d been experimenting with timed release and plasma-based payloads within tiny nanobot-sized capsules, and had left a couple of prototypes in his pocket by accident.

 

They’d detonated, and not a single Klingon had survived the blast.

 

(Chekov, pushing his nearly-sixty-year-old Captain out of range, didn’t quite survive either.)

 

“ _No_ ,” Kirk had gasped, crawling to him. “Hang in there, I’ll get Bones-”

 

Chekov had laughed, a peculiar, brittle rasping.

 

“It’s okay, Keptin,” he’d rasped, trying to ignore the dull throbbing from the gash in his torso. “Don’t- don’t call Meester McCoy.”

 

Kirk’s eyes had wavered, but he didn’t call the medic, only gathered Chekov’s broken body onto his lap as Uhura rushed to his side, the younger officers hanging back out of respect.

 

 _I’ll be going first_ , Chekov had tried to say, but his tongue was like lead in his mouth. _Help me say goodbye to-_

 

He let out one last sigh, and in that sigh it seemed as though his soul left along with the warm breath of air, and Pavel Chekov knew no more.

 

~

 

When Pavel Chekov next opens his eyes, the first thing to cross his mind is: _Huh. Didn’t expect the afterlife to have dilapidated accommodation._

 

The roof – or at least, it _seems_ to be some sort of roof – has holes in it, but the sky above isn’t particularly bright, but more of a dull, replicator-milk grey.

 

Chekov sits up, and the next thing he notices is that the arthritis and stiff joints that had started to set in when he was still a Lieutenant Commander aboard the Enterprise are gone.

 

“Still got legs,” he mutters to himself. “Good. Two arms, definitely there. Eyes, ears, nose? Still there, good. Hair?”

 

His fingers curl in a mop of corkscrew curls and Chekov stills, surprised. He hasn’t had much hair in the last five years, let alone hair this curly and thick. Absently, he runs a hand over his face, but doesn’t find any of the wrinkles that had begun to set in on his last two years aboard the Enterprise.

 

“I’m _young_ again,” he realizes, then, a heartbeat later: “Wow, zis afterlife business is _wicked_.”

 

~

 

Despite the return to the prime of his youth, he finds much to be desired in the broken-down house that he’d woken up in. There’s no food to be found anywhere, no furniture, even, just a half-rotten desk with something that looks _suspiciously_ like a Terran cash register on it. Peering inside, he finds a single dusty golden coin, and nothing more.

 

Chekov glances surreptitiously around, and pockets the coin.

 

The view from the window of the house seems rather bleak – grey skies, dead trees, and a single winding road leading toward the horizon.

 

Chekov wonders if some sort of angel or death god will appear and bring him somewhere else because the house is incredibly boring (unless, he thinks, he’s ended up in exile from heaven, in which case his situation being as boring as hell suddenly makes a lot more sense). His patience wears thin after a long while, and the wanderlust that had always plagued him since he first sent his application to Starfleet begins to take hold.

 

 _I guess exploring is a lot better than sitting here,_ he thinks. _Besides, if I have some sort of guide, they’ll find me eventually anyway._

 

(It won’t be hard to – Chekov hasn’t seen anybody else since he’d first woken up, and being the only soul around will probably make him much easier to spot.)

 

He walks out the door of the house.

 

~

 

The miserably grey skies do not, Chekov finds, change to reflect the passage of time. There _are_ clouds, but they hang still in the sky despite a small, cold breeze that occasionally ruffles the tips of Chekov’s hair and blows into his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking, but eventually there is a change of scenery, and Chekov spies a shadow in the distance that looks vaguely like another person.

 

“Hey!” he yells out, but the shadow does not move.

 

When Chekov gets closer, he can hear the quiet sound of water lapping against a riverbank, and sees a wide river as grey as the sky laid out right in front of him.

 

The shadow is a man, frail and nearly skeletal, dressed in a raggedy black _thing_ that has seen better days. He appears to be sleeping on some sort of jetty, tethered to which is a small, wooden boat.

 

The river may have seemed tame from a further distance, but up close Chekov observes that the water is suspiciously murky and brown, and something tells him that he probably does not want to swim in it.

 

“You wanting the ferry?” a gruff voice interrupts, and Chekov jumps, turning around to see the skeletal man has awakened, peering at him intently.

 

“…Ferry?”

 

“This,” the man says, gesturing to the boat. “I ferry people across the river of the Dead. Only dead people, mind.”

 

Chekov blinks.

 

“I’m dead,” he says stupidly, earning him a _look_ from the ferryman, who gestures to the boat again, slightly irritably, as he himself clambers in.

 

Giving the rickety boat a suspicious glance, Chekov tentatively steps in and sits, clinging to the side as the ferryman pushes off from the shore, rowing him across the river.

 

In the distance, there appears some sort of shadowy fortress-like structure, and Chekov wonders if _that_ is where all the souls reside.

 

(For an afterlife often glorified by living humans, it looks rather depressing.)

 

~

 

On the other side of the shore there is, again, a path, but it doesn't take long before it comes to an end in front of a pair of wrought-iron gates, flung open.

 

There is a winged creature – it looks half woman, half eagle, and Chekov’s mind, long fed on Terran tales of mythical creatures and beasts, whispers _harpy_ – sitting guard at the gate, and she (it?) eyes him as he approaches the gates.

 

“Er,” he says, feeling rather awkward. “Is zis the way to the afterlife?”

 

“This is the afterworld, yes,” replies the harpy, “but no souls stay here anymore.”

 

“ _What_?” sputters Chekov.

 

The harpy eyes him reproachfully.

 

“At the end of the afterworld,” she says, “there is a window back to the overworld. _That_ is where all the souls go, up to the overworld where they can become one with everything, one with the world again.”

 

“…Okay,” Chekov says slowly. “So if I get through _zis_ -” he waves at the gate “-I can go where I’m supposed to?”

 

The harpy nods, and Chekov gulps, looking beyond the gate at the twisting footpaths thrown into shadow. He’s never been good with directions – navigation was one thing, when he had a _map_ in front of him to plot the course with; finding his way blind was something else altogether – and he does not fancy the idea of getting lost in the afterlife. He’d always been the navigator for a reason – when it came to piloting a course through unknown territory, he would have followed Hikaru or Kirk, never led the way himself lest they inevitably get lost.

 

“Um,” he says again to capture the attention of the harpy. “Is it possible for you to show me the way?”

 

She eyes him for a long moment, as though assessing him.

 

“…My sisters can guard the gate while I show you. But for a price,” she agrees finally, and narrows her eyes at him.

 

Chekov remembers the gold coin in his pocket from the cash register and fumbles for it, holding out to the harpy.

 

“I have zis,” he says. “Will it do?”

 

She sniffs disdainfully at him.

 

“I have no need of money,” she tells him, and Chekov instantly feels stupid (of course she wouldn’t, there wouldn’t be anything to buy in this world anyway).

 

As he racks his brain to come up with some other form of payment, the harpy continues after a short pause.

 

“Your memories,” she says. “That will be your payment.”

 

He gapes at her – harpies could suck away one’s _memories_?! – until she huffs.

 

“Tell me stories about your life,” she clarifies. “That is my price.”

 

~

 

And so, as she leads him down narrow twisting pathways and past little dilapidated cottages, he tells her stories.

 

Stories of his childhood in Russia, stories of the Academy, stories of the Enterprise.

 

More importantly, he tells her stories about himself, and about Hikaru, because those are the stories he remembers best.

 

~

 

“Hikaru was my best friend,” he says one night (or at least, he _thinks_ it’s night, because they’ve stopped to rest up for a bit). “We were roommates in ze Academy, and then partners on ze Enterprise as well. Our, um, airship,” he rushes to clarify, because he’s learnt that not many choose to tell the harpy about their lives, and she still thinks of the overworld in terms of steam engines, hot air balloons and Henry Ford’s automobiles.

 

The harpy must have sensed some inflection in his voice, because she turns her head to look at him.

 

“Best friend?” she asks, prods. “Nothing more?”

 

“Um,” he flounders, but apparently that’s enough confirmation for her, because she nods imperiously at him.

 

“Lover,” she says, and smiles smugly when he meekly nods. “Good. Tell me more.”

 

~

 

_It was ten years after the incident with Khan when Hikaru (already a Lieutenant Commander by then) received a letter from Starfleet, all embossed and official-looking. Nobody really sent paper letters anymore, but Starfleet was old-fashioned in that respect, and usually sent things out in hard copy when they were important._

_“Open it,” Chekov urged (they shared an apartment now, and he’d been curious ever since he’d opened the door and seen the envelope lying on their porch), and peered over Hikaru’s shoulder to read._

_‘Mr Hikaru Sulu:_

_In light of your role as acting commander in the orchestration of defence and a counterattack against Klingon forces on planet Ulta IV last year, as well as glowing recommendations from your superior officers, I am pleased to offer you the position of Captain on board the USS_ Regent _…’_

_Chekov had stopped reading after that, drawing away from Hikaru. One part of him was happy for Hikaru’s promotion – captain was definitely a big deal, and Hikaru deserved it – but one part of him thought of the pilot’s seat on the bridge being filled by someone else, of not being able to exchange witty banter with someone who laughed at all his jokes and not having someone to cover for him while he played Galaga on low-activity shifts, of sitting in his (their) room and feeling the emptiness all around him._

_“Congratulations,” he said, ignoring the pit of dread forming like a punch to his stomach. “You deserve it-”_

_He cut off, abruptly, because Hikaru had turned the letter sideways and ripped it in half._

_“Zat was your chance to go places!” he sputtered at Hikaru, staring at the heavy paper now torn in two._

_Hikaru only shook his head._

_“I’m not going anywere,” he said. “Not without you.”_

__

~

 

Harpies don’t need to sleep, and truthfully, Chekov’s pretty sure dead souls don’t either, but there’s something comforting in the act of lying sideways, closing your eyes and drifting off. (He hasn’t been dead for long enough, Chekov figures, to lose his appreciation of the human things.)

 

The harpy is nice enough about it, lets him close his eyes and think about his life and memories, and doesn’t make a sound while he does.

 

It’s then, curled up on the ground with the buildings of the city of the dead around him, when Chekov missed Hikaru most, misses his smiles and his jokes and his warm presence.

 

He’d spent his life after Hikaru’s death trying to forget about it, but here in the afterlife he’d hoped to see Hikaru again, and now, wandering the empty streets with not a soul in sight, that feeling of the hope slowly dying away was worse than any pain he could ever imagine.

 

~

 

He tells the harpy of the day Hikaru had proposed, and then of the day they had been married. It had been on the bridge of the Enterprise, the place they’d spent long nights together and fallen for each other on.

 

McCoy had officiated, and Kirk had been best man, cheerfully warning them “not to do anything I wouldn’t do”, to which Hikaru had yelled over his shoulder: “I’m sorry, Captain, but that leaves me with a pretty long list!”

 

Chekov had turned around just in time to see Uhura and McCoy cackling at Kirk’s expense, Spock standing to the side with just a tilt of his eyebrows to indicate his amusement.

 

Hikaru had squeezed his hand then, and Chekov had turned back to look up into his brown eyes, mirth dancing in them.

 

“Shall we?” he’d asked, and Chekov had grinned right back at him.

 

“We shall.”

 

~

 

He eventually gets around to telling the harpy about the day of Hikaru’s death. It’s not possible to think about Hikaru without recounting that day, because the way he’d gone had been so like _him_ that it hurts. (Still hurts, but through the years Chekov’s learnt to cope.)

 

“It was a Klingon invasion,” he says, and doesn’t clarify anymore because by now the harpy’s heard enough to know about Klingons. “I lost sight of Hikaru in the fighting on the planet, but then he suddenly came out in one of ze little ships that we use for exploring. Just him, inside zat capsule.”

 

They take a left turn and keep walking.

 

“Ze planet was supposed to be uninhabited,” Chekov continues, trying not to relive the moment in his mind. “The Klingons were doing nuclear experiments on it, but ze area was also their headquarters, so we were pretty outnumbered when we landed on it. Meester Spock, he was already quite badly injured, and ze Keptin wasn’t doing too well either, and so Hikaru, he- he activated ze intercom, screamed at us to get back to the Enterprise and leave, and zen he said ‘Goodbye, Pasha’ to me and-”

 

He chokes a little, and the harpy eyes him with something almost akin to concern in her eyes.

 

“He flew it right into their headquarters?” she guesses, and he nods.

 

“Right into ze building with the reactor. We got back into ze ship in time so ze rays didn’t hit us because Meester Scott set up a protective field, but ze entire place was on fire, and over ze intercom connection zere was only static. He killed all the Klingons, but he- he was always so brave you know? Cared about others more than himself, it was so like _him_ to do zat, but it hurt to much to see him burn with them.”

 

A long, stilted pause, then:

 

“How long ago was that?”

 

“Twenty years ago,” he says, because the date will always be etched in his mind, forever mocking him until the day he dies (and beyond, apparently).

 

“I’m sorry,” the harpy offers.

 

“Wasn’t your fault he died,” he returns, and it is a long time before either of them speak again.

 

~

 

They walk and they walk and they walk, but eventually one day Chekov can smell something on the air that doesn’t quite mesh with the city of the dead.

 

“We’re here,” the harpy says, and gestures to something bright in the distance. “That is the window to the afterlife.”

 

They go a little closer, and the curious smell gets stronger. Fresh grass, Chekov realizes. The air smells like fresh grass and sunshine and _life_ , and he can’t help but smile a little.

 

There is a figure in shadow that appears to be sitting by the window, leaning against the wall of a building near it.

 

“Someone’s zere,” Chekov says (rather unnecessarily).

 

“He’s been there for quite a while,” the harpy says. “Got here about twenty or so years ago, but he’s been refusing to go through the window, keeps saying he’s waiting, but I don’t know what it is he’s waiting for.”

 

Their footsteps aren’t that loud, but the figure by the window looks up anyway as they approach, and Chekov feels something freeze in his chest.

 

“ _Hikaru_ ,” he rasps, because those eyes and that easy smile shouldn’t – couldn’t, _don’t_ – belong to anyone else.

 

“Pavel,” Hikaru (for it _is_ him) whispers as he comes closer, taking Chekov in with hungry eyes. “Is that you?”

 

The harpy has hung back now, watching them shrewdly from a distance, but Chekov doesn’t care anymore. All that matters is that Hikaru’s here, _here_ , and he can see Hikaru again.

 

“Ze harpy- she says you’ve been waiting here ever since you came.”

 

“Of course, sweetheart.”

 

Chekov wrinkles his nose – he _hates_ it when Hikaru calls him ‘sweetheart’, and by Hikaru’s amused snort he’ll wager it was done just to annoy him. There’s a bittersweet rush of nostalgia, and he tries hard not to cry.

 

“Why?” he asks instead, and Hikaru gives him a _look_ like it’s the stupidest question ever.

 

“I told you, didn’t I?” he replies, taking Chekov’s hand and dragging him to the open window, where they can see green meadows, almost _taste_ the sunlight shining through.

 

They step out together, floating out to rejoin the world, and Hikaru’s voice comes back to him on the breeze even as their soul-forms dissolve away into little shining particles, like dust, blowing away on the breeze to soar past mountains, across oceans, and up towards the vast sky.

 

_I’m not going anywhere without you._

_fin._


End file.
